Protect
by President Weasel
Summary: John is his best friend. He knows this. Without a doubt. John would do anything for him. Even kill to protect him. But how far would Sherlock go to protect John? Rated T for violence, language and general if somewhat misunderstood creepiness.


The first time it happened, he didn't know what to think, for possibly the first time in his life. The first time he could remember, anyway. They had been trailing a suspect who, if Sherlock were correct, would lead them straight to the smuggling gang's base. The man rounded yet another corner, walking quickly down yet another alleyway, travelling further and further into the centre of the city. Sherlock followed him silently, John close behind. But suddenly, the man had disappeared. "Sherlock." John whispered after a moment. "Where did he go?"

Scanning the ground for footprints, dropped paper, anything, he didn't notice at first the soft sound of someone sneaking up behind them. Sherlock did, however, hear the loud thunk and following cry behind him, and spun around to see John lying limp on the ground, blood gushing out of a wound on his head. The attacker bent over him again, a short bloodied plank in his hand, ready to bash John's head again.

But he never got to hit him again, as Sherlock barrelled into his side and knocked him to the ground.

That was about the point where things became uncharacteristically fuzzy around the edges.

He remembers, vaguely, seeing a thin, pale hand (left) wrapped around the assailant's throat, while the other (right) hand descended again and again into the man's face.

He also barely recalls the sound of someone crying out (in pain? Fear? Both?), and then they became silent, giving way to a series of rhythmic, sickening crunches.

Then strong hands were lifting him away from the ground (the ground? Why was he on the ground?), and a familiar voice was yelling something in his ear, sounding cross and confused. Then he blacked out.

When he came to, he was standing against a rough surface, looking at a large brown mass. As his brain came back online, he immediately registered that he was leaning on a brick wall, whilst staring at another brick wall opposite. His hands felt wet, as did his knees, and one of his fingers (right, ring finger, second knuckle) was throbbing painfully. He was breathing heavily, and adrenaline was thrumming through his veins. There was the sound of clothes shifting to his right, and he turned sharply. John. He was kneeling over something…no, someone. A man, lying stretched out on the ground in a pool of blood. Sherlock approached him cautiously. John turned to face him, and concern was written all over his face. "Jesus, Sherlock." He frowned. "What the hell happened there?"

His throat felt dry. He swallowed, and it hurt a little. "Um." Sherlock frowned too, in concentration. What had happened? He thought harder.

Oh.

_Oh_.

John.

The man had –

Sherlock dropped to his knees and grabbed John's shoulders, yanking him forward. Eyes narrowed, he inspected John's head for signs of damage. There was blood on him, yes, but it wasn't his. Probably the man's, where he'd got it on his hands and then touched his face.

"Ow! Sherlock, what the hell – ow! Get off!" John squirmed out of Sherlock's grasp and leant back out of the way. "What was that all about?"

"He hit you, John. On the back of the head. He had a plank...look, it must be here somewhere – " Sherlock stood and paced around, scouring the ground for the offending article.

He paused and looked up when he realised John wasn't moving. "John? Are you alright?"

John was staring at him with a curious mixture of concern, confusion and…was that…fear? "Um, Sherlock?" He stood, and made as if to walk towards him, but stopped himself. "Sherlock," he said again, and his voice was laced with worry. "Sherlock, I just tripped, and this man was offering to help me up. But then you…you…" He trailed off, and stared down at the man again. "He's still alive, but you've done a lot of damage, Sherlock. I've already rung the ambulance."

Indeed, he could hear the sound of an approaching siren, weaving its way through the sidestreets.

"Sherlock?" John's voice was questioning now, all trace of frustration and anger gone, just worry. "Sherlock, are you ok?"

Sherlock looked down at himself. His hands and forearms were crusted with drying blood (someone else's' blood. He'd hurt someone innocent.). His sore finger was slightly swollen and purplish under the red-brown coating (not broken, sprained). His knees were soaked in blood too, and grit from the ground was stuck to the fabric. He flexed his fingers gently, holding them up to his face. Then he dropped them, and looked at John, just as he heard the ambulance pull in behind him.

"I don't know."


End file.
